Not to belabor the point, but Anna is a complete idiot. I feel that I really must apologize for allowing my journal to become a daily harangue about my job and the indignities visited upon me thereby, but unfortunately, my job has infested every corner of my life at the moment (witness, if you will, my dream from last week where I was at work), and these demons have to be exorcised. Anyway, I�ll try to stay as tangential to the topic at hand as possible. Which, given my meandering attention span, should be no problem.
Anyway, the utter fatuity of Anna has been the cause of much tooth-gnashing and garment-rending around here, and was actually very much the focus of the happy hour excursion enjoyed yesterday evening by Tony and myself. Actually, happy "hour" is a very generous description of the guerilla-style tequila raid in which we participated yesterday. I think happy "forty-five minutes" might be more accurate.
We�d both had a bit of a long day, and as Tony had a couple hours to kill before he had to join his wife for some kind of married-person gauntlet they were expected to run at his mother-in-law�s request, we decided to do the happy hour thing. Incidentally, I believe it�s called happy hour because drinks are cheap, and that makes you happy. In any case, no sooner had our drinks and food hit the table than Tony�s wife called, saying plans had changed and he needed to pick her up right away. What ensued was perhaps the most disgusting display of frenzied consumption this side of Animal Planet.
Fortunately, I have had some experience insofar as chugging margaritas is concerned, but I think it was the python-esque mastication of a whole cheese quesadilla and two buffalo wings that worked my stomach over from the inside out. I mean, there was no puking, but by the time the tequila took effect during the car ride home, effectively inciting a spicy, cheesy riot in my stomach, I knew I was done eating for the day. Really, it wasn�t tremendously unpleasant, but I was left with a rather icky bloated feeling. And we�ll leave that point alone now, because nothing kills a party like the word �bloated�.
Still, there�s something to be said for cramming the content of your average happy hour into fifteen minutes of bingeing on southwest-style appetizers and adequately prepared, if unremarkable, margaritas. It was like a surgical strike against the stressors of the day, you know? We got in, we talked fast and furious about Anna�s extremely dubious capabilities as ringmaster of the chaos she herself creates, we obliterated our woes with a molotov cocktail of grease and alcohol, and we got out. No muss, no fuss, no heavy-handed profundities or wasted breath�it was the undiluted glory of a happy hour reduced to its most basic elements: crabbing about work, eating bad food, and getting a buzz.
Even so, I think I would just as soon never do that again.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: "ass over teakettle" I�m Watching: The Swan, but only for a couple seconds, I swear! I�m Reading: My e-mail from yesterday. Oy.